


Supplanter of Stars

by sinnerwoman



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Family Dynamics, Fluff, Gen, Genius James T. Kirk, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, James T. Kirk Needs a Hug, James T. Kirk-centric, James is a space god, James is a space prince, Star!James T. Kirk, Tags May Change, Tarsus IV, Teen James T. Kirk, Temporary Character Death, Young James T. Kirk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:21:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28401600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnerwoman/pseuds/sinnerwoman
Summary: The first time James Tiberius Kirk dies, he is two minutes old.It was at this moment the universe chose James. He was to live, and he was to live for them. When he takes his first breath for the second time, he shares it with the stars.Every parent thinks their child is special. Some even argue it’s natural to believe they are destined for something greater, something larger than life. Winona’s son is a child genius. For her, it’s enough, so she stops paying attention. Jimmy often converses with the night sky, but she never bothers to listen closer. Whenever he wants rain, it rains, and whenever he wants the sun, it shines like a blinding torchlight. He describes his friends—always collective—as omnipotent and omniscient. Jimmy is strange, but he is loved.Sometimes, he doesn’t feel loved.Or, a look into the childhood of James, royal space god and the supplanter of stars.
Relationships: George Samuel Kirk & James T. Kirk, James T. Kirk & Kevin Riley, James T. Kirk & Original Character(s), James T. Kirk & Winona Kirk
Comments: 17
Kudos: 126





	1. at work in his soul

**Author's Note:**

> ;0

The first time James Tiberius Kirk dies, he is two minutes old.

The flatline sounds throughout the craft. Dread creeps into their hearts. Everything goes quiet and the universe stills. The doctors turn to stone, the shuttle slows to a halt. For two seconds, time stops ticking, and the celestial bodies pause to mourn.

Then, movement. Winona sobs. Doctors clamber for tools and equipment, the captain hits the warp drive. A distant universe ignites, the singularity breaks away. Planets come to life.

“Everything will be fine, ma’am,” a doctor promises as he takes James away from Winona’s hands.

Winona cries out pathetically. It burns. The space that her baby had lain in, now burning and freezing and tearing a hole through her chest. Her baby, who was crying just a second ago, her baby now _cold_ and _dead_ and lungs _not working_ —

“Begin resuscitations!” a doctor orders. He looms over a makeshift table, James in the middle of it, still not breathing. The other doctors crowd him, and Winona bites back a scream.

She will _not_ lose George’s baby.

But there’s nothing she can do. And the worst part is, it’s no one’s fault. It’s no one’s fault James died. It’s not like George’s death, flashy and tragic, in the line of duty. A heroic act that will have hundreds coming to her with sincere gratitude and empty words. Not like George, who lived a prosperous twenty nine years, _not_ _two minutes_ , because some alien sicko decided to show up and ruin everyth—

She looks out a shuttle window.

The cosmos is beautiful. Seas of astronomical marvels engulf the shuttle; waves of invisible light flood in. Nebulae eddy around them, collapsing in on itself, creating as it destroys. Planets dance to an ancient tune, and the tremors come in ripples, passing through and beyond the galaxy. The stars watch with bated breath.

“Please.” It’s a whisper muffled by sobs and hiccups: a prayer and an ultimatum all at once. “Please, save my baby. Save my boy.”

Winona’s never believed in gods or legends or myths. And as she lays there, a widow and a mother for two minutes and _very much_ in pain that she feels as if she’s dying herself, she still can’t believe in them. She only feels hysteric, ridiculous, and so incredibly _hopeless_.

Then, the universe stills.

“We have a pulse! We have a pulse!”

Her baby’s alive. _He’s alive_. She cries anew, ugly and unrestrained, and she doesn’t know what to do with her hands or her face or her body—

“He’s breathing! Oh, thank god, he’s breathing!”

Winona thinks _no, it wasn’t gods. He’s not alive because of gods_. She smiles to herself. She smiles at her kid, and she smiles at George. She relaxes, closes her eyes, and sleeps.

  
  


(It was at this moment the universe chose James. He was to live, and he was to live for them.)

(When he takes his first breath for the second time, he shares it with the stars.)

🟍

Winona returns to San Francisco. She steps off the starship, James cradled close to her chest. She wonders how Sam would react. What would he think of his life now, fresh from boarding school, his father dead and replaced with a brother?

She doesn’t worry for long. The moment Sam sees James, he says he wants to hold him, like a “proper big brother”. He holds James so gently, so tenderly, Winona nearly cries in front of an admiral.

She raises her head, her soul tired and broken, and thanks her lucky stars.

🟍

Winona doesn’t think she’s a good mother.

She provides for her children, of course. She makes sure they’re fed and clothed and validated with motherly remarks. She answers their questions about Andorians, about nuclear reactors, about George.

(Though, the boys learned early that they’ll get nothing from their mother. Winona said “He’s a good man,” so many times she feels like a broken record.)

She cares for her kids as best as she can. But, like any mother, she sometimes makes mistakes.

A bell rings as Winona opens the door. She holds it open for James and Sam, a frown forming on her face. _Who the hell still uses bells?_

It’s a relatively small shop with a few customers. Fairy lights fall from the ceiling, conflicting horribly with the San Francisco sun. Several aisles of books, magazines, star charts, and galaxy maps await. Clothes patterned with cartoon planets adorn the left wall. Portable space navigation equipment hangs from the right wall; some of them look like toys. One corner is stocked with glow in the dark stars. Winona pushes her kids away from it.

She parks them in front of a rotating rack of handheld universal translators. “Okay, Mommy’s just going to get a book, alright? Don’t knock anything over.”

She enters one of the aisles, then glances over her shoulder. Good. They’re not following her.

She relaxes and picks a book from the shelf. A few years ago, she would have protested against this. She’s an engineer, not a book-checker for the Academy. Hell, a book-checker isn’t even a thing. And if it is, she isn’t one.

If she didn’t have two kids who eat like there’s no tomorrow, she’d refuse to get paid for this. Her reading comprehension isn’t to be wasted on reading potential textbooks. What was the Admiralty thinking?

 _Maybe you should be grateful they still think about you_ , a voice in her head says. Winona snorts. She returns the book and grabs another one. _I’m grateful they think at all._

She’s reading through the “About Author” page, and right before she could rant to herself about self-acclaimed ‘geniuses’, something tugs at her pants. She looks down, and that something turns to someone.

“Mommy, can we buy this please?” Sam smiles at her with hopeful eyes and waves the small navigation handbook in her face.

Winona blinks. Winona tries not to panic. She puts the book back on the shelf, then squats to Sam’s level. He hides the book behind his back and looks at the floor.

“Sam.”

“Yes, Mommy?”

“Where’s your brother?”

Sam lifts his head. “He wanted to touch something. I told him not to, and that we should ask Mommy first. So I told him not to move, like how you tell us not to move, then I followed you here. I found this book though.” He waves it in her face again. “But it’s okay if we don’t get it.”

Winona takes a breath. “Sam, don’t ever leave your brother alone, okay?” It comes out harder and more forceful than intended.

“D-did I do bad?” He drops the book. “I’m sorry, Mommy, I’m sorry!”

She shakes her head. “It’s okay, kiddo. Come on, let's go to your brother.”

She takes his hand and leads him out of the aisle. He’s still embarrassed, and possibly tearing up, but Winona just sighs. Emotions were George’s forte.

They turn a corner to the rotating rack. James isn’t there.

Winona bites her lip, hard, because if she doesn’t she might break Sam’s hand. Okay, okay, where could a two year old possibly go? James couldn’t read yet, but Winona won’t put it past him to go to the books anyway, if only to look at the maps. She glances around; the only other person in the equipment aisle is a cadet in red. James never cared for clothes, but he does somehow already have standards, so Winona doubts he’ll head to the low quality merchandise. The bell didn’t ring—damn that bell, how dare it be useful—so James must still be inside.

“Okay.”

“What’s okay, Mommy?”

Winona turns to her son. He looks scared. “We’re gonna go find your brother. Just a little look around the shop, can you do that?”

“Alright.” Sam nods. He squeezes his mother’s hand. She pulls him forward.

They spend a good minute searching and maneuvering around the store when an employee exits the back room, his deep voice rumbling. “Argh! What’re you doin’ there, squirt?”

Winona hastens to the cashier, dragging Sam along.

The man lowers himself to a half-squat. “Come on out, little man. It’s alright.”

Winona breathes a sigh of relief when James crawls out from under the cashier counter. Sam tries to tug away, but she keeps a firm grip. From now on, she is not letting go of her kids.

“Hiya, Jimmy,” she says.

James turns around, and he’s holding a huge plastic ball. It resembles Mars. “Hi, Mam.”

“What’cha got there, Jimmy?”

“Planet,” he says. “Can I, Mam? Can I?”

Winona swallows a groan. “Well, I don’t know, kiddo. I don’t think it’s even on sale.”

“Actually,” the employee starts, “that’s our last stock. He can have it ‘ough. It’s cheap and worth your buck.”

“Aw, Mommy!” Sam exclaims. “If Jimmy will get something, can I get something too?”

Winona stares blankly at the employee. She will kill whoever thought it was a good idea to give kids a superficial idea of money.

The employee only chuckles. “The wonders of parenting, aye?”

“Aye,” she agrees. “Okay, fine, Sammy, you can get something too. Just not that handbook, okay?”

“Right.” He nods, as if this situation is a grave one and requires intense decision making. “I want some glow in the dark stars, please.”

“Oh, you’re in luck, young boy! We got a special pack ‘ere just for you.” He winks at Winona. “It costs a lil extra, but I think I can spare you this.”

Thank you, she mouths. She takes out her wallet and fishes out a wad. The transaction is made and they leave the shop, the bell ringing in their wake.

Winona’s hand is still clasped to Sam’s. He waves his sticker pack at passing strangers. She can’t really hold James’ hand though; both his arms wrap around the ball, trapping it to his chest. She walks close to him instead, shielding his back and putting her free hand on his shoulder.

“You like your planet, Jimmy?” she asks her son.

“Yup, Mam.”

“What planet is it?”

James shrugs. “Wulcan.”

Winona nods. It’s only when they’re back home and the kids are playing with James’ new ball, that she remembers she was supposed to get a textbook.

Well.

Damn.

🟍

James doesn’t like Frank. He doesn’t like the way he smells. He doesn’t like the way he speaks. And he especially doesn’t like how he snatches his mom away just when he wants to be with her.

His mom’s been a lot more distant since she met Frank. She’s by his side all day. Sammy’s been distant, too. He spends most of his time in his room, away from Frank, but also away from James.

This was bearable a few months ago when Frank was just another faceless name in James’ life. His mom had developed a habit of leaving the house at all the wrong hours. Right before meals, immediately after bedtime, in the early morning light when she thinks James can’t hear her from his upstairs bedroom.

At first, he didn’t mind the strange behavior. He just went about his day, living as any six year old would live. He read about starship engines. He cooked pancakes. Examined star charts, annoyed his brother.

At this time, Sam was withdrawn, but not distant. Sam didn’t want to play with him anymore, instead scrolling on his PADD on the couch and ignoring James.

That was months ago. Two weeks since, his mom introduced him and Sam to Frank.

Frank isn’t a big man, but he smells and looks like the bar his mom always avoids. He has a hooked nose and a broken grin.

But James had immediately noticed Frank’s eyes. They were so empty and cold, like sharp steel.

James doesn’t know how they are now. He refuses to look.

“Ey, Winona.”

His voice, too, isn’t pleasant. It’s rough and hard and edged, so whenever Frank speaks, James’ heartbeat picks up as he tries to make himself smaller than he already is.

“Ey. Woman.”

James flinches. He can flinch openly here, in his stuffy bedroom, staring out the open window at the San Franciscan skyline. The sweet summer air makes patterns in his room, comforting him as he listens to the conversation below.

“What, Frank?”

“Where’s your kids?” He sounds gruff and bored.

His mom’s response is sparse. “In their rooms. Why?”

Frank grunts. “You got weird kids.”

“Babe,” she says after a beat, “what the hell do you mean?”

“I mean, come on, Winona.” He says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Your eldest wants to be a psychologist. That’s _creepy_ , but fine. At least the boy’s got a plan.” There’s a pause. “Your young one, though. What does he do? Stare out his window in his underwear? Talk to himself at night?”

“Jimmy’s six. He can run around the house in underwear for all I care.”

“And the talking?” Frank challenges. “Don’t you hear him rambling away like he owns the night? You can’t tell me it doesn’t bother you.”

Winona replies instantly. “It doesn’t bother me.”

“Open your eyes, woman! It’s weird! He’s weird!”

Things are quiet for a while.

“But he’s my kid, Frank.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Win.” He sounds tired. “He’s your kid, so you better fix him right away. You wouldn’t want him to grow up a freak, right?”

“Jimmy isn’t—”

“The boy reads about replicator technology in his spare time. No six year old does that.”

“He’s just different.”

“You say that, but trust me. The world out there is hateful and merciless. James would _never_ fit in.”

“D-don’t say that.”

“I know it, Win. And you know it too. Someone like ‘im _can’t_ be normal. So we gotta help him. We gotta fix him.”

When his mother doesn’t answer back, when she doesn’t defend him against Frank, James decides it’s time to close the door and go to sleep.

🟍

The moon hangs high in the night sky. Stars dominate the vast expanse, and each one shines brighter than normal. San Francisco is quiet, calm, even peaceful.

But on this restful night, the universe quakes in grievance. The celestial bodies are in turmoil.

James Kirk sits on his windowsill, legs dangling uncaringly. He’s transfixed on the moon and the gentle shifts of its craters.

He smiles as he swings his legs back and forth. “I guess,” he says to the night air. “He makes her happy. I don’t think Mom’s been happy a lot.”

A shaft of light hits his right foot. He shrugs at the stars. “It’ll heal. Frank didn’t mean to push me down the stairs. It was an accident.”

_(Is that what you believe?)_

“No,” he protests, understanding. “No. Frank’s never been mean to me. Sure, he says I’m weird, but he doesn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t want to.”

Nothing answers. James sighs and lets his legs dangle. They sway slowly in the wind.

“You don’t think I’m weird, do you?”

_(No.)_

James brightens, his smile rivaling the stars. “Really?” he asks them.

There’s no response, but James doesn’t need one. He knows. “Thank you. Thank you.”

The moon moves west, and James nods. “Okay, okay. I’ll go to sleep. I’ll see you guys again tomorrow, okay?” James slips back inside with easy agility. He closes the window shut.

When morning comes, the sprain in his right foot is healed completely.

🟍

When Winona and Frank get married a year after meeting each other, James asks the stars to bless them.

They don’t.

  
  


(James doesn’t understand why they wouldn’t want to bless Mom and Frank.)

(They tell him he doesn’t understand love. In his childhood innocence, he asks if they can teach him.)

(Their answer is hesitant, but it rings true.)

_(We’ll try.)_


	2. until you shine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. i kinda went off without meaning to but i didn't stop myself either. this is long, and it reads like poetry, but this is my style. thanks for enjoying it so far. stay safe, drink some water.
> 
> i should put chapter warnings i think  
> \- implied/referenced child abuse : yelling and curses and injury (no graphic description)  
> \- if you're afraid of water, being submerged, etc., watch out

Weathered fences protrude from the ground like bones. The backyard is barren and dying—baking in the dry heat.

A runtish boy squats in the weeds. His hands are clasped together. He murmurs under his breath; the whispers pass through the air in wisps. They fly to the heavens, sometimes in Standard Tongue, sometimes in a language unknown. He rocks back and forth, easy and practiced.

This is how James spends his mornings in Riverside. There are three simple reasons for this:

1.) The decaying backyard is quite lovely if you just open your eyes.

James finds many treasures here, from bugs to rocks to actual treasure. Sure, his collection of trinkets and doodads under his bed is not impressive by any space pirate’s standards, but they’re _his_ , so they matter.

2.) Frank hates how hot it is outside.

The house is surviving. It doesn’t ventilate properly, the stairs shake, something always needs fixing. Sam stays in school longer than he needs to, so James has the four confining walls and Frank all to himself. Thankfully, he knows every nook and cranny, and more than half of those are still undiscovered hiding spots. The house is surviving, but so is he.

3.) It just feels _right_.

Iowa is lonely—lonelier than San Francisco. The days are longer and the nights cheat. Very few of his friends appear in the sky here, and the moon always has trouble finding him. They miss him as much as James misses them. Still, he can’t spend his hours waiting for darkness to fall. He tries to talk to the sun. The sun hates him; it openly ignores him. But James tries anyway because he’s always been drawn to the sun, he’s thankful for the light and heat and energy it gives, and he wants more friends because he’s just so damn _lonely_.

(James is often discouraged after sessions since every one of them has ended in silence. And yet, he can’t bring himself to stop. Maybe it’s because his soul screams at him to continue. Maybe it’s because he’s physically incapable of giving up. Or maybe it’s because whenever he looks at the sun, he imagines a ball of fire and power, moving in a perpetual loop, infinite and _alone_.)

James finishes his morning ritual and stands. The earth rises with him.

It used to bother him. If he concentrates, keeps his posture straight, and breathes just right, he can feel the earth. Nature blends with consciousness. The cornfields dance to the song of the wind. A creek cuts through the dense woodland. Magma rumbles under his feet.

He becomes aware of everything, and what’s terrifying is he doesn’t find it terrifying.

The stars told him it happens because Earth is his first planet, and that connection intensified as he grew older. It’s just another one of those things.

He closes his eyes and exists. The air is rich and refreshing. The terrain whistles and wildlife chirps. He shuffles in place and Earth grows vivid. A lake, a cliff, an anthill. Trees and flora. Life, beauty. Existence.

  
  


This isn’t home.

There’s a house, wrecked and on its last leg.

Red uniforms flood a classroom.

Workers hasten their pace, constructing a ship unlike anything he’s ever seen, the Iowan sun dipping into slumber behind them.

This _can’t_ be home.

He longs to find home. To see its wonders and hold it close, to hold it as his own.

_(Wake up.)_

He longs to explore and witness. First learn Iowa; experience Riverside and everything it has to offer. Then run.

_(Wake up.)_

He longs to run.

  
  


Wake. 

  
  
  
  


“JIMMY!”

James’ eyes snap open. He swivels. The house is trembling again. The back door is closed but it’s flimsy, and there’s the telltale clink of a glass bottle—

“Jimmy! Where’d the fuck you go!? The fuck!”

James’ heart is in his ears now. It’s loud and terrified. The fences—they’re broken; a good kick can knock them down. He makes a decision.

Frank watches stepson tear through the desert landscape. Fences lay like broken bones. He grumbles and takes a sip of beer.

The sun sets: brilliant streaks of red and yellow color the sky. Frank retreats inside.

🟍

James returns to the house under the guidance of moonlight. The stars had told him to, and when James protested, they asked for faith. He didn’t want his friends to think he didn’t trust them, so he turned around.

As he traverses the desolate environment, it dawns on him that he had run away. He had abandoned everything and didn’t look back. He left Sam alone. He mutters a curse and kicks himself internally.

It’s quiet when James reaches the house. All the lights are off. Nothing moves. It’s like it’s dead.

_(Silently.)_

James heeds his friends’ advice and he tiptoes into the house. He knows which floor boards creak and which ones are safe, so the world continues in absolute stillness. Frank is passed out on the couch in the most uncomfortable position. He reeks.

The sight of Frank makes him want to run again. It’s primal, he knows. Instinctual. It’s not something his friends can feel because such basic fear and panic is virtually unknown to omnipotent celestial bodies.

The upstairs is somehow darker, like night had drowned the second story of the house. The stars and moon come to his aid, however, and James can see again. Someone is whimpering and groaning down the hallway.

James stops; the guilt and terror claws up his throat, coercing him to make a sound. His friends push him forward. He stumbles. He cries before he even opens the door.

Sam is sprawled on his bed, face contorted in pain. His breathing is shallow. Pillows protect his body on all sides. The stars send light, and James notices the blood.

He rushes forward. _Oh no. Oh no, no, please, please._ The tears make it hard to see, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself or his hands—

Sam groans as he shifts in his sleep. James presses a hand to his mouth to stop himself from screaming. He can’t believe he let this happen. He can’t believe he did this. He shouldn’t have left. Frank was in a mood, and he should’ve just been a brave and good brother and taken it for Sam—

He falls to his knees. The sound echoes.

_(James.)_

_(James.)_

With tears in his eyes, James looks to the window. His friends stare back at him. He was right. They can’t feel, but they understand. They always understand.

_(Ribs.)_

James blinks. His ribs?

Experimentally, he pokes his brother’s side. Sam cries out, weak and muted, but the pain is obvious. Frank bruised Sam’s ribs.

“Oh.”

_(Ribs.)_

“What do I do?” James begs.

_(What you always do.)_

“What?” He says after a pause. “No. I can’t do that. I-it only works on me.”

_(Have faith, James.)_

He shakes his head. No. No, that can’t happen. He can’t heal his brother, can he?

He looks to the window again. The implications of this are astounding. If it works, if James can heal others—that would be phenomenal.

He takes a deep breath. He places his hands on his brother’s chest; they rise and fall rhythmically. Have faith, his friends said. He closes his eyes and trusts.

James doesn’t really know what happens next. Even though he’s healed himself several times, he still can’t describe the process.

Heat comes first. Unbearable, burning heat, the kind that can bake someone’s insides. It subsides quickly enough, and only a faint stinging remains. Then something moves underneath his hands. It swirls around, slithers, hitting invisible walls before turning around and repeating the movement. They’re like slippery tendrils, and stray strands sometimes reach out and lash at James’ skin. It dissipates right before it becomes painful, laggardly slipping into nothingness.

He doesn’t understand it. He only knows to lift his hands, and when he does, the injury disappears, as if it was never there.

James opens his eyes. Sam stares back.

“What are you doing?”

He jumps backwards. He hides his hands and rubs his feet together. “Nothing.”

“Jimmy.”

“It’s nothing! I swear. You were just making weird noises and I was curious.” James stifles a yawn.

“Jimmy.”

“Sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to.” James turns to leave. “I’ll go back to my room now.”

“Wait, Jimmy. Jimmy, stop, please.”

He stops.

“Jimmy,” his brother says. “I don’t know what you did. Or why you’re here.” He pauses. “But d’you wanna sleep in my bed tonight?”

James turns around. “What?”

Sam grins, and James is even more confused. Sam hasn’t smiled in weeks.

“Come ‘ere, little guy.”

James frowns, but slips into the bed anyway. It’s soft, and the air is very, very humid, but Sam pulls James closer, and everything feels right.

“I’m not little, Sammy.”

Sam laughs. “Yeah you are, you’re a freaking midget.”

“Not for long,” James grumbles.

“As if.” Sam’s grip tightens, like he’s afraid of letting go. “You’re my younger brother, so you’ll always be little to me.”

“Damn you.”

“Go to sleep, midget,” he says with a yawn.

“You’re a jerk.”

Light falls, and silence rules the house once more. Glow in the dark stars lull them to sleep.

🟍

Frank slams the car door shut as James slips out of the passenger seat. His feet land on soft soil. The strap of his duffel bag digs into his shoulder; the weight is too heavy for an eleven year old, but James can handle it.

Sam appears at his side. He slouches under the load of his backpack, and his grip on the Coleman cooler is desperate. He's afraid to let go and spill its contents. Probably beer.

"Follow." Frank treks up a slight incline. The trolley he carelessly drags behind him nearly topples over. Pebbles and loose rock fall to the side.

The wind is brutal today. Dust and sand circle the air. The trees roar with the rustle of leaves. Sam pants as he hikes. His long hair whips his face.

They reach a trodden, dirt path. It bends right, curving around a thicket of trees.

James is grateful for the deafening wind. No words pass between the trio. Frank doesn’t chastise them for being slow. He won't say anything in front of his buddies either. He won't look good if he yells at his stepchildren. For as long as James and Sam are careful, this can be a silent, perhaps even peaceful weekend.

It would have been better if they were allowed to stay at the house. Unfortunately, despite how horrible Frank is, he does good on his promise to Winona to watch over her sons. But that's all he does. He watches, he makes sure they're around, then he gets shitfaced drunk.

Sometimes, James wonders how life would be if his father had lived. Would they even be in Iowa? Would George buy a fishing rod and teach him how to fish? Would Mom stay?

It's a terrifying, fleeting fantasy. James is content with what he has. A brother, the stars, the moon, Earth. It's enough.

The campsite is a secluded patch of grass at the edge of a grove. There are already people bustling about—mostly large men—carrying bags and food and logs. The wind is less fierce here.

"Okay," Frank says. "Stay out of my way. Stay out of everyone's way. Carry your own weight."

James nods. Funny how three of four bags are Frank's.

Sam replies, "Alright." There's sweat on his forehead. James hopes the breeze cools him down.

Just as he thinks it, the wind picks up again, raging and loud. The trio hurry to the campsite. The wind follows them.

"Frank!" Someone tall and unfamiliar grins. He strides forward, arms open wide.

Frank lets go of the trolley and meets the man halfway, hugging him with unrestrained enthusiasm.

James shares a look with Sam. His brother flashes him a smile. _It'll be okay,_ it says.

And it is okay. Frank doesn't even introduce them to his friends, so they place the bags at an appropriate spot and collapse on the ground. It's too windy to set up a tent. James picks at the grass instead. Sam watches the adults mingle and laugh and yell. James imagines himself barefoot and curling his toes. He daydreams, and it occupies his mind for a while.

When he starts getting restless, Sam asks him math questions. He wishes he didn't. He wishes they could talk for once. To just be brothers, just be children.

"How do you find the area of a triangle given only the sides?"

"Come on!" James laughs. "That one's easy."

"Indulge me."

"Heron's formula. Find the semiperimeter then substitute the values into the formula."

"What's a semiperimeter?"

"Excuse me, guys." A red-haired man looms in front of them. "There's a lake a few ways off from here. Do you want to go swimming?"

"We have to ask Frank first," Sam answers coolly.

"He suggested it," he says. "Said it'd be good for you kids to explore on your own."

Meaning Frank wants them gone for a few hours. Sam scowls. He probably doesn't want to go swimming. Too bad.

"I'll get my swimsuit." James scrambles away. He opens the duffel bag and digs through it. He gathers a bunch of clothes—Sam's; he was slow at packing, so his things are on top—and plops them on the ground.

"Hey!"

"Sorry," he mutters, "hang on. Just gonna get…"

He pulls out his navy blue rash guard from under a copy of Virginia Woolf's _To The Lighthouse_. He drapes the swimsuit over his shoulder, takes Sam's clothes, and stuffs them back into the bag, unfolded and unorganized.

“Get a towel!”

“Fine!”

James finds the towel tucked into the side. He closes the bag with a satisfying zip.

He turns around to see Sam glaring at him, arms akimbo. James shrugs. Frank's friend has already left and melded with the crowd.

"Lake's that way." Sam points beyond the trees. "But we're following the dirt road."

"Aw," James cries in a comically childish tone. "No adventure?"

Sam tramps onward, taking long strides just to annoy his little brother. James catches up. They walk in comfortable silence. The wind dies down around them. In the distance, a bird sings for its mate.

James closes his eyes. He sinks into the sensation, the experience of nature. He breathes. And then, it's like the bird is right beside him, its call clear and melodious. Every chirp and warble demands his attention, but there's also the gentle kiss of fresh woodland air, and the grinding of worn sneakers on a worn path, and the stars smile at him, as they always have.

What a gentle afternoon.

“This way.”

They diverge from the path and climb down a slope that leads into the forest. Sam ducks under an overhanging branch. He lifts it up so his brother can pass.

“Hell no.” James stops short. “You’re gonna let it go and hit my face.”

“Baby.”

“I’m going around.” He trails his fingers on the thick trunk as he circles around. The bark is rough and uneven, but the tree leans into his touch. James can feel himself in everything, and everything in him.

In the middle of Sam’s rant about their dilapidated kitchen—”It’s a fire hazard, Jimmy, I swear”—they hear the rhythmic lapping of water. They follow the sound, and James almost trips in excitement.

The copse opens to reveal a clear, turquoise lake. Trees sit on the shoreline. Their boughs look like hands reaching out to the blue. The great, empty sky stretches the horizon.

“Change over there,” Sam points to a boulder nestled in the beach. “Towel.”

James tosses him the towel. He catches it with one hand then settles next to a piece of driftwood.

He changes quickly. He throws his clothes over the rock, on the side where Sam could see it, before booking for the water.

“One hour!” Sam calls out.

An invisible force yanks James' chest, and he stumbles in. Instead of bruising his jaw on the nearshore—the littoral zone: the word lifts from a memory of an encyclopedia and dry air and too many cruel days—he plunges into the deep. A grand darkness overwhelms him. He ascends and breaks the surface.

"—areful!"

He swivels around. He rubs his face with one hand to wipe away the water.

"Sorry!" he shouts, breathless.

For a while, James is normal. He’s a kid swimming in a lake. Sometimes floating, sometimes practicing his strokes, but always enveloped in the fond caress of shy waves. For a while, he pretends it doesn’t bother him. He listens close for beauty, for the humble drone of fluttering insects. He hears them around him, in front of him. Two states away, a flower field comes into bloom.

But he hears something else, too. A humming, muffled and faint. There is no melody to its song.

He swims closer—or, at least he thinks he does. The waves get choppier; he bobs up and down like a heart going into cardiac arrest. The wind assaults his face, his trees. Thunder claps above, or was it a volcano? either way, he did not call for it, did not command for it to happen, it just did, like a knee-jerk reaction and a prayer and an ultimatum all at once. 

The thrum is in his ears now. The pounding builds. He feels like he’s about to burst. Explode, die. He fractures, shatters, his organs fly out of his body (did he ever have a body?) spilling blood and dark matter and omnipotent and omniscient little everythings, eternal nothings. It isn’t pleasant. But it’s not a descent into madness. It’s not his mother’s smile, Frank’s eyes, or Sam’s determined indifference.

James can handle it.

Blindly, he flails, moving forwards, sideways, and back again. Until he finds himself in the dead center of the lake.

"Come back!" Sam yells. James can feel his shoes skid on stone. His stone.

"I'm fine!"

"Get back here, Jimmy!"

James ignores him.

It’s here. It’s **here**.

The buzzing fills his head. His eyes slip closed.

  
  


I’m here.

It’s _below_ him.

James dives. Everything goes silent. He kicks his legs. The darkness pulls him further and further down. Too quickly, the air leaves his lungs.

A scream rips from his throat—or maybe a sigh—delicate and young and lonely.

There is no light at the bottom of the lake, but James can see perfectly. A cloud of sand puffs around his feet when he touches the ground. The floor is eerily flat. He is still. He is afraid. 

Earth splits open. The shifting and rumbling and groaning god unhinges its jaw, swallowing gallons of lake water. James sees it flood down into the growing hole but he is still submerged. The gaping pit is drenched in darkness, and it is impossibly deep. There is no earthquake; no scientific explanation.

James cannot cry. He cannot breathe.

It’s a tunnel. A free fall into Earth’s core. An offering. A declaration of undying love.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_(Swim up, James.)_

Sam is waist-deep in lake water when he surfaces. Sam clings to him. They collapse onto shore, soaking wet and shaking.

Sand sticks to the side of his face. He forces himself to inhale. He doesn't dare close his eyes.

Sam crawls away from him. He grabs the towel and throws it over James.

The world is still. There is no noise. There is no wind. Just two brothers, gasping for breath.

🟍

“You can’t come with me, James!”

“But why?” He begs.

“It’s too dangerous for a little boy like you.” Sam stuffs clothes in his duffle bag. “I’ll come back for you, though. We have an aunt in the police force. I just have to find her, then she can help us.”

 _Like Mom will come back_ , James doesn’t say. Instead, he jumps off his brother’s bed and storms out the room. This is so wrong. This is so _unfair_.

He stops in the middle of the hallway. No, he cannot cry now. Not now, when his brother and only solace is leaving him alone with Frank. Maybe forever. No, he can’t cry. If he cries now, he’ll cry every night after, and the kids at school will make fun of him again.

He needs to be strong. He needs to be brave.

He doesn’t notice Sam’s in front of him until Sam gently lifts his chin. The world is blurry and his breath hitches.

“Hey, little guy. Don’t worry, okay? Two weeks. Give me two weeks. I’ll come back and we can leave this place forever. We’ll go fishing, like you’ve always wanted to, yeah?”

Something catches in James’ throat. “Don’t leave me, Sam.”

“Two weeks, little bud. You think you can last two weeks?”

 _No_ , James thinks, but he doesn’t need to know that. He needs to be strong. He needs to be brave.

Sam takes his brother’s silence as affirmation. He gathers James into his arms and hugs him hard. It’s a long time before he lets go.

“Two weeks is how many seconds?”

James does the math in his head. “One million two hundred and nine thousand and six hundred.”

Sam smiles proudly. He takes a step backward. “One million two hundred and nine thousand five hundred ninety nine. Ninety eight, ninety seven...”

James continues counting well into the night, hours after Sam disappeared over the horizon.

🟍

When Frank comes home to only one of Winona’s children, he isn’t happy.

James cannot last two weeks.

“Help me.”

_(Always.)_

_(Always.)_

🟍

The stars and the moon’s help come in the form of a well-timed command.

_(Jump!)_

_(Jump!)_

The 1965 Chevy Corvette pierces Earth below him. Jagged metal digs into his skin. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t bleed.

It’s freeing. Barely surviving an ill-advised joyride while the dry desert air whips your face is freeing.

James restrains himself from laughing in the policeman’s face.

He quips instead, “Is there a problem, officer?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> much love! have a good day.


	3. you can't extinguish a phoenix

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's happening

Space greets James with so much love, he almost forgets he shouldn’t be here.

He shouldn’t be in a shuttlecraft with officers from some child protective service telling him to wear his seatbelt. He shouldn’t be creating lightyears of distance between himself and Earth. He shouldn’t be pressed against the window, waving at passing asteroids and pulsars.

Yet here he is. And for the first time since Sam left, he feels hopeful.

His friends are breathtaking up close. They welcome him home with explosions of power and light. They waltz around the shuttle, not once leaving him alone. They tell him Earth and its moon miss him.

“Tell them I miss ‘em too.”

A month passes. He rides many shuttles. Every time they stop at a port, James explores what he can, the officers following close behind. He can get used to this— the queues and queues of ships from all over the galaxy, the void of _something_ that stretches on for infinity, the ceaseless motion. He loves the moving; he loves having to go somewhere, even if he doesn’t know where _somewhere_ is.

He feels the tug of the planet before they even reach orbit. James bounces on the edge of his seat. What would it be like to step foot on another planet for the first time? Would there be an instant connection, or would it grow and develop like his link with Earth? Would he make a friend?

He exits the shuttle, his tattered shoes leaving imprints on the pale dirt. Everything is dust.

Tarsus IV does not greet him.

🟍

The bleak terrain of crumbling rocks and arid vegetation reminds James of Iowa. He frowns as he drags himself to a humble government building a few ways off from the landing area. An officer tries to engage him in friendly conversation. He grunts in response to everything she says.

The building is boring. It’s made of brick and has two large doors. The officer opens the door; the inside is boring, too. Directly across him are counters with old-fashioned glass barriers. Wooden benches line the walls. There are more people than James expected, but most seem to loiter.

“There.” The officer points to a woman wearing a vest. “That’s your great-aunt Marina. She’s pretty famous in this colony. A lot of people like her.”

James nods. He isn’t going to travel by spacecrafts anytime soon. The realization drains the last of his enthusiasm.

“Well, here is where I leave you.” She sticks out her hand and James takes it. “Nice knowing you, Jimmy.”

She walks away. His frown deepens. _Jimmy_. The name brings back memories he’d rather forget. An absent mother, Sam and his promises. The car. The wind. The house that no longer exists, burned down during Frank’s last stand against the authorities. Jimmy’s a bad omen, a different life.

“‘Ello!” Before James could react, his great-aunt Marina pulls him in for a hug. “You’re James Kirk, right?”

“Y-yes,” he says, shaken.

“I’m Marina, but you can call me Aunt Mary or Auntie.” She smiles at him, and the warmth reaches her eyes.

James looks away. “Alright.”

Mary talks as she leads him out the building. They turn the corner to a makeshift car park. There’s only four vehicles. Mary enters a green pickup and James takes the passenger seat.

“This here is a pretty, old thing. My papa owned this before me. Said it was an antique from the twenty-first century.” She drives away from the building.

The Tarsus wilderness is barren and uneventful. Distant mountains pierce the skyline.

“I heard your dad used to collect cars as well. I guess it’s a Kirk trait.”

James doesn’t respond. So far, he’s seen six tumbleweeds.

“How about you, hm? Do you have any hobbies, topics that take your interest?”

He considers ignoring her, but that wouldn’t be fair. In the minutes he’s spent with her, she’s treated him kinder than Frank ever has. Plus, he’ll be spending the rest of his life here. The surroundings may be uninviting, but the people certainly are not.

“I like science,” he mumbles.

“Oh, that’s great!” She flashes him a smile. “Y’know, my boys enjoy it too. Chemistry, physics, the whole lot.”

“You have kids?”

“Yes. Don’t you worry, James.” She doesn’t see him flinch. “Albert and Jacques are a few years younger than you, but they’ll love having you around.”

“O-okay.” He clears his throat. “Uh, Aunt Mary?”

“Yes, dear?”

He should stop. He shouldn’t say anything, shouldn’t ask for anything. She can call him whatever she likes. She’s his guardian now, so all he can do is listen. But hearing her call him James is so wrong. No one calls him that—no one should. It’s the name the stars gave him.

He can’t stop now. She's paying attention to him, and he shouldn’t waste that. He has to say it or he’ll forever be James to her, and it’ll always feel wrong.

“Can you not call me James?”

He waits for the questions, the raised voice, then the eventual refusal.

“Okay,” she says instead. “What do you want me to call you?”

James doesn’t know. He can’t be Jimmy. Tiberius is a mouthful, and there’s no way he’s going to be Kirk. He thinks for a long while.

“JT. My name’s JT.”

🟍

After two months, James settles and makes a routine. He sits on the house porch and waits for dawn. (Tarsus’ sun doesn’t greet him back, but he can tell it’s listening.) He picks a deep purple fruit off a tree and grins when the unbearable sweetness creates fireworks on his tongue. Then, the colony wakes up.

At 0600, the din of a wheelbarrow trudging uphill sends sand-colored birds flying. The aroma of freshly baked bread fills the air. Gusts of wind blow into slanted trees.

Aunt Mary wakes up first. She makes herself a cup of coffee then sits next to James as she drinks. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, she lets him take a sip. She whistles a cheerful tune as she makes breakfast for the family.

Uncle Noel wakes up next. He’s a short and timid man of few words. Every morning he ruffles James’ hair, and that conveys more love and affection than anything Frank’s ever said. He dances stupidly with his wife in the kitchen, and James tries not to laugh.

Albert always insists he’s an early riser, but Jacques is up a good thirty minutes before him. The house is truly alive when those two are awake. Everything is much noisier, much rowdier, and much happier.

James joins his family at the dining table. He eats breakfast again, because he’s a teenage boy who’s learning that people will love you despite all the reasons why they shouldn’t.

He goes to school and studies hard. His cousins introduce him to other kids. Not all of them stick around. James is too “different” and “weird”. Albert and Jacques cut ties with those people immediately.

Mary teaches him to weave. He enjoys it, and the mathematical application only makes him love the art more. She teaches him many things: crochet, pottery, mechanical engineering. How to fix an engine, the right way to paint a wall, urban myths and legends. James has a lot of fun with Aunt Mary.

But he enjoys his time with Uncle Noel the most. There’s something special about standing in the crop fields of a barren and unexplored planet, watching insects flit through the grain, orange mountains swaying in the distance, and the sun setting without once acknowledging James. His uncle stands with him as the miracles of Tarsus reveal themselves.

They drink it in.

Noel gets James’ attention. “I know the view is great,” he says, “but there’s work to be done.”

James nods. “Yeah, sorry.”

Night swallows day, and James is more knowledgeable about plants and farming than he ever needs to be. They climb into the green pickup and drive back to the house.

🟍

“Wait! JT! Truce! Truce!”

“What do you mean truce?” James yells, his legs aching as he runs. “This is hide-and-seek, there is no truce!”

“Wait, please, hang o—aaAAH!”

James tackles Albert and they both fall to the ground. Pain explodes through the left side of his body. His cousin lets out a hacking cough. They laugh, loud and easy, and help each other up.

Jacques calls them from afar, “Come on guys, hurry up! Emile’s here!”

Albert brightens. “Emile? Yes!”

“Who’s Emile?” James huffs.

“Our friend.” Albert grins, grabs James by the arm, and drags him to where Jacques and a little boy are standing. “We love him, and you will too.”

“Alright,” James agrees easily. He shifts so Albert lets go of his arm, and they run side by side.

James loves his cousins. Everything feels much lighter and much happier whenever they are around. It’s great, and he’s never been more grateful to be alive.

They don’t mind that James comes from the opposite end of the galaxy. They don’t mind that he’s smarter than every other kid in the colony. They don’t mind that he talks to the night sky. They like him, they love him, and James feels at home.

“Emmy,” Jacques puts his arm around the boy as James and Albert approach. “This is JT, the coolest thirteen year old in the world.”

James squats down to match Emile’s height. He smiles. “Hey man. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

“I have.” Emile averts his eyes, but he bounces in excitement. “I’m Emile Molson, but my friends call me Em or Emmy.” He risks a glance. “You can call me that too, i-if you want.”

James melts. “Of course I want to, bud. You’re so sweet.”

“Thanks,” he hiccups.

James stands and offers his hand. “Come on, let’s go play tag.”

“What’s tag?”

“Just the best game ever!” Albert jumps in, arms flailing wildly. “We run while one person tries to catch us.”

Emile scrunches his nose. “Oh, so it’s like chase?”

“Kinda.” Jacques shrugs. “But we say ‘tag, you’re it’ when we get hit.”

“Oh, okay.” He flashes James a smile before slapping his leg and booking it. “Tag, you’re it!”

“Hey!” James yells.

Albert and Jacques only laugh as they too sprint away. James runs after them, a string of playful taunts leaving his lips.

🟍

The ride is quiet and the roads are empty. It’s late, and the stars are out. If James had been stronger, better, he would be catching up with his friends right now, instead of suffering this silent drive back home.

“I’m sorry.”

They don’t answer. He breathes in, and tries again.

“I’m sorry. I don’t—I understand why you think I shouldn’t have hit that kid. I won’t do it again.”

Mary sighs, but keeps her eyes on the road. “We don’t want you to understand why _we think_ you shouldn’t have hit Bruce, JT. We want you to understand why you shouldn't have hit him.”

Noel doesn’t move, but James knows he’s disappointed too.

He fidgets in his seat. “Bruce was saying bad things about you. Like, really bad. Really really bad. I told him to shut up, but he didn’t. Then he started badmouthing our teacher, and, well. You know the rest.”

“You shouldn’t be getting into fights, JT.” Mary uses a voice that makes James sink into the back seat. “Not for me, not for Ms. Laning. You’re young! You shouldn’t be fighting at all. Ever.”

Mary pauses. James closes his eyes, if only to avoid hers in the rearview mirror. He’s small again, useless, and a bad son. Frank stands in front of him, demanding a bottle of beer.

“You shouldn’t be fighting,” she repeats. “We love you, JT,” she says, softer. “We only want what’s best for you, and this is not it.”

James opens his eyes. He sees colossal, towering nebulae glowing in magnificent and indescribable colors. The heat from the glorified cloud seeps into his bones, turns into warmth, then into a fire that latches onto his soul and doesn’t let go. The moment is fleeting, but the message is clear:

_(We love you, James.)_

He bites back a sob. His heart wrenches uncomfortably. He can’t breathe.

“I love you, too.”

The drive back home is silent, except for the occasional whimpers and sniffles from the back seat. Mary and Noel’s concerned looks say more than their voices ever will.

🟍

The wicker basket is deep and round and has a single handle. It looks new, but nothing in Tarsus is new, so it must have been spared from the blight of neglect and dust. Not a lot of possessions get that privilege.

Maybe it’s a secret message or a family ritual. Maybe it means, “Hey, James, guess what? You are now worthy of beholding our one and awe-inspiring heirloom: the wicker basket.”

Or maybe it’s been months since James played space pirates and he finished his calculus work in less than thirty minutes and his genius mind was tired of watching weeds grow. So, Mary pulled him inside and set him at the table. She had him organize embroidery floss while she rummaged around the house for what James now knows is the legendary wicker basket.

Albert says it signifies adventure and escapade, thrill and merrymaking. Jacques says it represents bonding and fellowship, family and quality time. And now James can make his own signification of going to the wet market.

The market is about half the size of a San Francisco block. Stalls fall in a grid formation. One zone sells meat and poultry, another fresh produce, another still hand-made furniture and household items. The selection for fish goods is scant.

Vendors clamor at passerby, yelling out prices and bargains. Customers point at products and haggle. Some people loiter, creating roadblocks and forcing others to swerve around them. One man holding a plastic basin trips on misplaced bags and splatters the concrete floor with unclean, foul-smelling water.

James shambles behind Mary, clad in black boots and a straw hat. Mary moves with grace and confidence; she's an experienced buyer who has no trouble traversing claustrophobic aisles. He keeps the basket close to his chest like a treasure. James swelters under the prickly Tarsus heat. He pinches the front of his shirt and fans his body.

The two scurry from stall to stall. Mary greets the vendor with a smile. She picks some vegetables and examines it. She takes a handkerchief from her pocket and dabs the sweat on her forehead. James watches his surroundings, half-heartedly listening to Mary ask questions. He catches some people staring at him. He stares back until they look away.

"Hey JT. Is it true you kicked Onofre in the shins?"

James turns around to see Kevin Riley, a small, lanky, trouble-making kid from the west of town, grinning at him with wide eyes. He has never talked to Kevin. He doesn't know him. And yet, he knows James.

"How'd that feel? Was there blood? Did you get in trouble? Can you teach me to fight?" His voice pitches higher with each question. Kevin sidles closer, vibrating with excitement.

James clutches the wicker basket tighter. "I—"

"Riley!"

Kevin's head snaps up. He stumbles backward. "M-ma'am!"

"Where's your parents, Riley?" Mary asks. She puts her hand on James' shoulder and squeezes. He breathes. He focuses on that rather than the force behind his punch, the drive of adrenaline, the gravity of his mistake. "You shouldn't be alone."

"Oh, don't worry, ma'am! Mommy's right there." Kevin gestures somewhere behind him. "But JT is here, he could protect me."

"Well," Mary speaks slowly and sweetly, "why don't you go back to her, hmm? JT and I still have errands to finish."

He deflates. "But JT was just gonna show me some moves! Right?"

"Maybe some other time, Kevin."

He scowls and nods. “Alright. But you promise!”

Kevin squints his eyes and scans him up and down. His arm shoots up and he points at James’ face. James flinches. Kevin doesn’t notice. He says with absolute confidence and a coolness only youth can provide: “You’re awesome.”

Before James can react, he’s already gone, sprinting into the waiting arms of his mother.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah.”

The weight of her stare reminds him just how different Tarsus is from Iowa. In Iowa, he never gets caught in a lie. He could say the most outrageous things like “I met a Starfleet admiral” or “Sam doesn't hate you” or “Frank feeds me well” and everyone would nod and move on. Here, he’s too honest. He’s an open book; everyone knows him and everyone cares. Mary cares.

It’s a stifling realization. Everybody who cares eventually stops caring, and they leave. Maybe the only reason James is still friends with the stars is because they can’t care. They can’t care because they’re powerful, ancient beings who know and see all. James is human, James is mortal, but they love him anyway. They stay.

“Do you want to go home?”

This isn’t home either, is it?

“Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also wow yes i have a tumblr now. let's chat about whatever. :D should i post Supplanter there?  
> https://nicscurvy.tumblr.com/

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
